Got close enough to feel his breath on my face, close enough that another inch would close the distance, close enough that I could see the flecks of gold in those copper eyes and the way his pupils had dilated.
His hand came up—I felt it on my chest, firm, stopping me before I could close that final distance.
“No,” he said, and his voice was rough in a way I’d never heard before. “We can’t.”
I froze. My heart was hammering so hard I could feel it against his palm.
“I’m your coach, Dante.” He said my name again, and it sounded different this time—strained, like it cost him something. “This can’t happen.”
“But you—” I stopped, because what was I going to say? That I’d felt something between us? That he’d stayed with me in Chicago, that he’d gotten in the bed, that he’d looked at me in ways that felt like more than professional concern? None of that mattered if he was telling me no.
“I’m sorry,” he said, and he pulled his hand back like the contact burned. “I shouldn’t have come up. This was a mistake.”
The word hit like a physical blow. Mistake.
“Right,” I managed.
But he was already moving, already heading for the door with that controlled efficiency that was somehow worse than anger would have been. He grabbed the door handle and paused just long enough to look back at me.
“Get some rest,” he said. “I’ll see you at practice.”
Then he was gone.
I stood in my empty apartment with my pulse still racing and my face hot with humiliation, staring at the closed door and trying to figure out what the hell had just happened. I’d misread it. All of it. The attention, the concern, the way he’d looked at me—I’d built it into something it wasn’t because I was desperate and stupid and apparently incapable of learning from my mistakes.
Antoine had taught me what happened when you trusted someone who said they cared about you. When you let yourself believe that the attention meant something more than it did. When you convinced yourself that you were special, that the rules were different for you, that this time it would be different.
It wasn’t different. It was exactly the same.
I’d been so fucking careful for two months. And then Kincaid had stayed with me in Chicago, had gotten in that bed, had looked at me with those copper eyes and asked about my apartment like it mattered, and I’d let myself believe—
What? That my coach was interested in me? That a man in his fifties with decades of experience and a reputation to protect would risk everything for some twenty-three-year-old nobody who couldn’t even trust his own instincts on the ice?
I was an idiot.
Worse than an idiot—I was the same idiot I’d been with Antoine. The same desperate kid who mistook self-interest for caring, who built castles out of scraps and then acted surprised when they collapsed. Antoine wanted to control a threat. Theron wanted a better team. Neither instance was about what I wanted.
I picked up my mug from the windowsill and took a drink even though the coffee had gone lukewarm. My hands were shaking slightly, which pissed me off more than anything else. I didn’t get to be upset about this. I didn’t get to feel rejectedor humiliated or whatever this burning thing in my chest was, because nothing had actually happened. Kincaid had stopped it before it became something. He’d been the adult in the room, the professional, the one who understood boundaries even when I apparently didn’t. It wasn’t fair comparing him to Antoine. Theron was trying to help me become a better player. Antoine just wanted to make sure I didn’t become better than him.
I set the mug down harder than I meant to. It made a sharp sound against the counter that echoed in the small space.
The apartment felt smaller than it had five minutes ago. The walls closer. The lack of anything personal suddenly glaring, like even my living space knew I wasn’t worth investing in, wasn’t worth the effort of making it feel like home.
I thought about calling Marco. Thought about calling my ma, hearing her voice, letting her tell me everything would be okay in that way mothers had of making you believe it even when you knew better.
But what would I say? That I’d tried to kiss my coach? That I’d misread every signal and made a complete ass of myself? That I was apparently incapable of maintaining professional boundaries or learning from past mistakes?
No. I wasn’t calling anyone.
I grabbed my bag, pulled out my phone, and stared at the screen for a long moment. No messages. No missed calls. Just the time—4:47 PM.
I should shower. Should eat something. Should do all the things that Cinder had told me to do to manage the concussion and the ribs and the general damage I’d accumulated over the last week.
Instead, I sat down on the edge of my unmade bed and stared at the wall.
Antoine had made me feel worthless by design—systematically undermining my confidence, rewriting my instincts, turningme into someone who second-guessed every decision until I couldn’t trust myself at all. That had been deliberate. Calculated. Part of whatever game he’d been playing that I still didn’t fully understand. The two months on the bench had compounded it.
This was different. This was me doing it to myself.
